When Particles Collide
by Renzin
Summary: Cybertron was falling - a repressed effervescent desire for change was taking over. The rebellion would come. Cities would fall and warriors would be made. And as the two great titan powers of Autobot and Decepticon clashed, those that were left behind would be forced to adapt and survive. But no matter how fast Scythe ran, the ground was crumbling away at her peds.
1. Chapter 1

When Particles Collide

Chapter 1

Life Among The Stars

~oOo~

Stars are perhaps the greatest example of life; a great expanse of raw, incomprehensible energy, condensed into something that has form, a gaseous pool of chaotic, blinding power. Their light reaches to every corner of existence, illuminating the halls of space. And yet, like all fantastic forces, they must grow and die, to be remembered for eons long after they have extinguished.

Many of the stars that the soldiers of NEST could see were long dead, left to decompose in the largest graveyard there was. As they performed their drills under the stern eyes of their commander, a few glanced up to recognise Venus blinking down at them. Despite the bleeding morning sky, a crumbling half moon hung resolutely there as well.

Major W. Lennox briefly followed the flickering gazes of his soldiers, and he too was momentarily captured by the beauty of the great miasma that hung above them. Distantly, he could hear the grunting and hissing hydraulics of a nearby NBE going about their business as well. He had been working alongside the great race of machines for years now; even his organic ears could recognise the lighter, youthful gait of Bumblebee as he jogged along with a lazy bounce across the clear tarmac.

The Major's gaze was finally caught tightly by the sky again; he wondered about their planet, the unseen world of machine. He had wondered, and dreamed about it. It sounded both unbelievably incredible and terrifyingly foreign to what he knew. Yet again he pondered on how the Cybertronians must be feeling that right now.

Unknowingly, he looked past the area that this distant planet had occupied. It had always been far too distant to see with the naked eye, nor any technology they had invented to date, yet in another set of circumstances, perhaps they could have been so lucky.

If Cybertron had indeed been visible, it would have merely served as a world of dead memories and grim futures for its natives. Like the stars, the light that would have travelled to Earth would have been from a time long before that of the empty husk that remained. And it would never bode well to those that looked to the past live.

~oOo~

"Scrap!"

Pressurized springs squealed against the plates of legs pumping with all their might, kicking up a trail of indigo dust that was sucked quickly into the vents that lines the curbs of every pavement. The streets were still busy, several bots rudely awakened from their bubbles to hastily jump out of the way of the scrambling blur of silver. Many had to be pulled back yet again as several larger, darker shapes followed in quick pursuit.

After clearing another corner, the silver runner skidded around to grab some sort of aesthetic aerosol and without stopping, dug one cone shape claw deep into the cheap metal and took a deep breath through pursed lips. She pressed them to the hole and harshly exhaled, knowing that her filters would have released a rather handy chemical concoction into the can. A glance behind her told her that her three followers were far too close, so in retaliation she threw the can back as accurately as she could.

As she had hoped, instinctually the leading enforcer drew out his hand cannon and shot at the can. With a violent bang and cerulean bloom of spontaneous combustion, the enforcers yelled and fell back, as did many startled bots. There was a loud commotion of panicked civilians, and as she expected, the thick smoke that remained was the perfect escape that she needed.

Several breems* later, the femme slowed her mad sprint into a jog down the familiar road, falling into a lazy stroll through the automatic doors of her destination. They were thick and stable, however had need of a good clean around the cogs for as long as she could remember. After bleeping green from the sensors in her frame, they shut deftly behind her, closing her into the gardens that surrounded the property.

It wasn't common to live in a complex that included space outdoors in the city, but like most government-funded buildings, the orphanage was an exception. The gardens were bare and the ground worn from years of younglings trudging around it, the fine copper powders that were distinctive as Flexian landscape swirling up in small green wisps through the air. There were many variations of creepers growing around the property; weeds that flourished in the halogen rich soil and distinctive for their strange ringlet like stems and thin leaves that stung and always left stains on your plating.

She had to pause at the next door to the building, extending a hand to let a darting wire from the locking mechanism attach to a small port in her wrist with a magnetic click. A brief moment and then her identity was confirmed, and she continued on her way.

The complex was an old building, with blank walls and dimly yellow lighting. Only the more advanced homes kept all the dust out; as she made her way down the corridor, clouds of gleaming metal particles curled around, the new additions from her dirty peds leaving a darker residue on the floor.

She was almost at her own room when a snapping voice called her back. Her entire frame froze in agitation, yet she turned reluctantly to acknowledge the owner.

"Scythe, what the slag are you doing here?" Dropoff demanded. Her fists were resting on her hips, and a cleaning rag was hanging from one of her shoulders.

Scythe shrugged. "I live here."

The older femme snarled, her cracking vocal chords wheezing with fatigue. "Don't you speak back to me _youngling._ You should have been home from the education centre joors* ago, and now you're here and trailing your _filth_ everywhere."

"Sorry ma'am." Scythe stared back as passively as she could with a jaw angrily jutted out, until Dropoff snorted loudly. She brushed past her and travelled back down the stairs.

"Clean yourself up, then get down here."

Scythe obeyed, eager to rid herself of the grim that was clogging her seams. Luckily, the washrooms were empty. There were two in the building designated for each gender, as well as two separate waste disposal units. (WDUs). Each stall had a small shelf and a hanging bottle of oil based solvent, as well as two rags for cleaning, one rough and the other smoother. With a groan of released tension, Scythe shifted her armour off. It was poorly made and old, not even originally fitted for her frame, but a necessity and the only one available for her needs.

Once she was done, she ventured down to find Dropoff arranging the meals for everybody's dinner. There were a total of 15 children, the oldest only days from upgrading to his final frame and leaving, the youngest the only sparkling that had to sleep in Dropoff's quarters for constant management. At the moment, the sparkling was being watched by another older youngling as Dropoff worked. After noticing her arrival, she set Scythe to wash away the dirt in the corridors.

Dropoff was a bitter femme, that had lived an unknown amount of vorns* in Flexis. Her armour was painted a faded lilac and yellow that was chipped and matted by an array of silver scars. Her optics were an acrid orange, a sign of her lower class, and sported a rounded helm and narrow servos that were once skilled with many a craft. Now they were charred and sometimes twitched uncontrollably.

She had been in charge of the orphanage for a long time, with only a few part time employees that didn't live on the premises. Scythe had been brought to her door by enforcers as a sparkling; her only known creator was a mech who was sentenced to be executed, a feral bot who had a lists of deaths to his designation. The guard in charge at the time that he was brought in was amature enough to only scan for weapons; it was unknown that there was a sparkling in his hold until he was interrogated.

Immediately, Dropoff tried to make the enforcers take her back. She was a beast in most eyes. It was obvious that her creator had passed on his feral coding to her; the sparkling sported a short crop of finely wired hair, the sort that commonly made up the hides of wild predators and animals in the wilds outside of the city. The fraternisation with these bots raised mixed opinion; while with most any relationship would be clear beastiality, a few more 'civilised' predacons were morally compatable with the standard bot. It wasn't a very open subject, but it happened. There were also several lines where dormant feral coding from the early civilisations of Cybertronians were passed down, and occasionally in modern times a bot was sparked that had the coding activated. The latter was the most likely case for Scythe's creator.

Other signs were clear; the thick claws, the silver optics that feral bots had, the narrow arrow shaped audio processors and jagged mouth of serrated teeth. Certainly, it wasn't hard to imagine why Dropoff easily named her Scythe in the first place.

However the enforcers were immovable. They insisted that Dropoff couldn't just pick and chose her wards, and left the sparkling with her after arranging the usual suitable funds that the government provided her.

Dropoff was a cold, biting bot to everybody, but with Scythe she was at first brutal. The idea of having to bring up a feral bot was unappealing to most. It didn't help that Scythe had different urges and instincts to the other youths; random exertions around the city were common for her, and despite the trouble that always seemed to find her, she seemed to always scrape out of any bad situation.

However with time, Dropoff became more passive to Scythe. the older femme had seen a lot in her life, and it wounded her pride to accept this, but Scythe hadn't grown up to be a rampaging murderer like her creator. She didn't even seem to care about her background, and was intelligent like any other youngling. In fact her teachers at the education centres adored her; she seemed to excel at the work, and despite her habit of trailing off course on the way from home to school, was compliant and never broke any rules.

The young femme had been smart enough to make herself scarce when Dropoff was in a mood; Scythe wasn't the most rational of bots, but she at least knew how to pick her fights. She had watched Dropoff for a long time; something had changed that had made the older femme softer around her. It was a poor and delirious substitute, but Dropoff really was the only sort of family she had.

Scythe spent most of her time alone; several times Dropoff would find her sitting in precarious places, balancing or hanging by her limbs and reading a data pad with rapt attention; at first, she had seemed dull witted despite her sharp eyes and fast growth rate. She had learnt to read and walk at a very slow rate, but once she had her thirst to learn was startling.

Eventually, Dropoff's view of Scythe slowly morphed. First to something similar to taking interest in a bug flying about, then pity, and now an odd band of respect. After all this time, Dropoff had become fond of the youngling, though neither would say it aloud in their lifetimes.

Scythe slid into the kitchen to put away the cleaning tools, then wordlessly cleared away the tables for their meal. Watching her with shrewd eyes, Dropoff said "Where did those come from?"

Scythe shrugged before she even realised what had been said. She briefly glanced at the scratches in question. "Dunno, they're old."

Dropoff snorted and glared accusingly back. "Don't play with me, youngling. What ever trouble you've gotten yourself into, just stop. I will not be happy to open may door to the enforcers tomorrow with you in their custody. Understand?"

She nodded and absentmindedly reached up to scratch around the loose helmet at the back of her neck. It was uncomfortable, but a necessity that she had learned to like with. Bots with feral coding, no matter how long they had lived in the cities of Cybertron, were seen as barbaric. Many ended up as grunts in the military sectors, or in the pits of Kaon. Scythe's hair like wires that adorned her head would now reach her waist, and was the same iridescent silver as the rest of her natural plating. However at a young age, Dropoff had made certain that she knew about the prejudice that she would face if any recognised her heritage; the guardian herself was still slightly disgusted by it, but time had soothed her old distrust.

The armour Scythe wore was from some long gone youngling, a mech who had been bulky and strong. The first few orns* of wearing it had been a struggle, considering that she could barely move in it. Like her frame, it was silver, though darker and rusting, and unshapely enough that most didn't realise that she was a femme until they saw her face or heard her speak. It didn't help that she was much taller than other femmes, and built strong –Dropoff had mentioned that one of her creators was probably from Kaon, or at least the military class.

Even then, Scythe had to wear a mask that covered her nasal ducts downwards, so as to hide her maw of fangs. Her silver eyes were heavy lidded and shapely, the only feature that could been seen and admired, though they gave her a blank and offlined sort of look that many found disturbing. Her claws could be retracted to a certain degree, and the webbed wiring of her peds were covered with clumsy shoes that had taken her a lot of practice to move around quietly in.

Scythe vented harshly and pulled herself out of her irritation. Dropoff may not be the most generous of bots, but the orphanage only got so much funding.

Over the vorns, the other younglings had grown used to Scythe, despite the taboo that surrounded her. She was quiet and even helped the youngest with their work without being asked. They learned to co exist, and to never ask where she disappeared to all the time.

After the evening meal, Scythe retreated to her quarters. Small and home to loud wheezing vents, it was all her own. She swung her legs out of the window, wincing when her growing hips scratched against the frame and clambered up the metals walls a short distance until she could pull herself onto the flat roof. Scythe perched there, stretched her torso and twisting to the side, until she was satisfied and found a comfortable position.

The city of Flexis lay before her, distinctive for the copper buildings, the green lamps that burned bright in the evening making the rising dust spark and gleam. The air was constantly moving, dry and hot like the wilds that surrounded the city. In the distance the plains of the desert could be seen, then the lines of forest and finally the far away Krek mountain region. Across them the city of Vos lay, and even further on the great capitol Iacon. Transportation lines and roads lead to the city from all directions like humming purple veins

Flexis was a large and prosperous city, a giant hub for merchants and the centre of trade. Whereas other wealthy cities showed their wealth through clean city streets and expensive architecture, Flexis was run down around the edges and had a large lower class presence. Most worked in the factories, while those of the upper class that didn't live in the wealthy districts either travelled from other cities or lived in large secluded mansions with great walls on the steps of the western plains. In the opposite direction of Vos and Iacon lay Kaon and Drete, a navel city, and then the barren out lands in the east. Praxis was their closest neighbouring city south east of Flexis, known for the many great thinkers and scholars of their time.

Scythe took in all the beauty she saw. Her pointed audio sensors twisted to catalogue the usual whirls of life in Flexis. It was her home. It was all she knew. Her gaze drifted towards the horizon again.

It would one day all be gone.

~oOo~

 **Breem - 8.3 minutes**

 **Orn - 13 days**

 **Joor - 1 hour**

 **Vorn - 83 years**

 **Hey there reader! Thanks for clicking on this story - I hope you enjoyed it. This has been blowing about my brain for a good 6 months, and now that exams are _finally_ out of the way and college is done, I can get it underway. **

**To returning readers of mine, don't worry! The updates for my other stories are still underway, though one or two will most likely be facing a rewrite.**

 **It would be great if you guys reviewed, you know, say what you think and all (lets keep the criticism civil though). This one's going to be quite a saga, I can feel it in my key board!**

 **Love,**

 **Renzin xo**


	2. Chapter 2

When Particles Collide

Chapter 2

Judgement Of Coding

~oOo~

 _"It was obvious that bigotry was never a one-way operation, that hatred bred hatred!"_  
― Isaac Asimov, Pebble in the Sky

~oOo~

She hurried out of the wide gates of the education centre, her cooling system instantly heightened to combat the burning Flexian heat. Before the others could exit as well, she leapt up a low wall and scrambled away.

There was a mouth-watering smell in the air; Scythe followed it with her twitching nasal ducts until she was in a docking station near the edge of the main market. It was a richer district, and upon recognising where she was, instantly slipped into a slim shadow that was peeling off a dead end. She watched several worker bots shifting heavy crates from a wide cargo board with thick sides that hovered at knee level off the ground. From between the crossing metal of the crates, gleaming translucent cubes of energon supplies could be seen.

Scythe's optics widened hungrily at the sight of one crate already on a merchants' stall. The mech was distracted, animatedly reeling in a femme who was eying the collection of imported high-grade energon. However Scythe's sight was set on the crate of energon sweets that gleamed in an array of colours, their warm fruity scent wafting over to her.

Quietly, she moved back the way she came and travelled around the wall of the buildings to arrive at one she guessed to be directly behind that particular stall. Scythe glanced around her. The street she was in had a few bots wandering around, but none were focused in her direction. Her optics automatically traced a path up the urban footholds and her servos and peds swiftly followed.

She clambered across the top and leaned over in a crouch; down below to her left were the labouring mechs, a little to her right the merchant almost finished with his sale. She waited a breem for him to finish and become distracted with another customer. The crate was moved below the stall and covered with a cloth, however the lid had been left off and a selection were now on display.

Scythe scowled, scraping her claws against the roof; she could see any way to get those delicious energon sweets without getting the enforcers called. Her optics flickered to the usual one that was on patrol, circling the maze of stalls with supposed nonchalance. She could waste too much time today. Dropoff had been very clear that she needed to be home straight after her lessons finished – her excuse for this stop was that it was on the way home.

And then, a stroke of luck – one blue toned sparkling close to needing its first youngling frame was tugging at his mech creator with ecstatic energy, pleading at the sight of the sweets. The creator was startlingly similar to his creation, and apparently a sucker for it was well, because soon he was sighing and gaining the attention of the happy merchant. A klick* later and both were wandering back into the crowd, the sparkling hanging off the mech's hand and clenching a small cube of packed sweets in the other. Several had already been ingested in record speed.

Seeing her opportunity, Scythe back tracked down the building and jogged back around to spot the couple exiting the main market area. She merged into the crowd, her dull colour forgettable and claws kept close to her sides.

Her targets were almost at the edge of the crowd now, so she started to gently push through and close the distance. The electricity in her wires began to tingle under her plating, and her vents seemed to echo like thunder under her mask.

The sparkling had slowed its pace to dig around the small container with a panting glossa, unaware of the predator that was stalking him. As he leaned further in, a large bot bumped into him and with a cry of surprise he let go of his prize as he fell to the floor. The mech creator quickly became alert and hurried back, chastising his creation for going alone. By the time he deciphered through the hiccups that someone had stolen their purchase, Scythe was rolling down from a drain onto the street parallel, the sweet cube already safe in her subspace.

She felt a sharp sense of jealously at the sight of them that she hadn't allowed to emerge for a while, so stealing the sweets didn't install any guilt in her. Besides, they were a luxury that Dropoff could rarely bestow on the orphans, and they no doubt would appreciate them more than some spoilt sparkling brat, Scythe reasoned.

~oOo~

"Where the slag have you been?" Dropoff snarled as soon as Scythe was in view. "Look at all this dust! Frag it, why are you always so filthy after school?!" Before Scythe could answer, Dropoff waved her away. "No, never mind, I'm not interested in your wild answers today. Go to the wash racks and get ready. We're going to the medics today, and if you don't hurry, we'll miss our appointment."

"The medics'?" Scythe said with confusion. "What for? Neither of us is sick."

Dropoff let out a bark of course laughter. "Haven't you been monitoring your growth rates? It's time for your new frame, youngling."

Scythe's optics widened with excitement and quick as a flash she ran up the stairs.

Cybertronian childhoods were specific to each individual. Each bot would grow into frames at different rates, which could be estimated by the genetics of their creators. Seekers tended to have an accelerated growth until becoming a youngling, when they would need to grow fully functioning wings. Praxians were the same, while the wild creatures of Cybertron and those with feral coding tended to reach maturity within 10 vorns – a precaution to minimise the risk of death while being vulnerable. Those from military classes such as Kaonians and worker bots tended to be well built and muscular – they took the longest to mature at 20-23 vorns. Natives of Iacon and other civilian cities had lighter frames, and became grown mechs and femmes at around 17 vorns.

Because of this, the frames of bots needed to be updated according to the growth rate of the individual. Having a qualified medic examine you was the best way to track your growth rate, however all bots could look up a predicted value on their HUB screens. Due to fluctuations in factors such as chemical imbalances, amount of physical activity and special functions that needed to develop, this value was often constantly changing.

Scythe was in her last frame as a youngling – if the medic cleared her, then Scythe would be ready to don the plating that would theoretically stay with her for the rest of her existence. Of course many bots installed all sorts of updates, as well as replacing armour and functions. A frame was the organic equivalent of skin, but more resembled the quality of an all over exoskeleton. Cybertronians still had an extremely sturdy endoskeleton, along with their metallic equivalent of muscle tissue, organs and nerves, however the frame was the base for outer plates and armour to be worn on.

Currently, Scythe's frame was squeaking at the edges and stretched to its very limits; growth spurts were uncomfortable affairs, and many younglings had certain diets to reduce the irritation. Scythe's armour wasn't exactly a perfect fit in the first place, but hopefully with a new frame it would fill out a bit more.

The Flexian council provided all funding for medical care and anything the orphans needed, such as food and the maintenance of their home; this included frame upgrades, though corners were often cut, meaning that Scythe wasn't the only youngling with poorly fitted armour. However once the youngling was ready for their adult frame, the government provided a fund for them to acquire a proper, well-made armour that would be tailored to the individuals. After that, they would be out on their own.

Scythe was _very_ excited; this was probably the closest she had ever been to shopping, and with Dropoff of all femmes (but then again there wasn't anyone else). It was also a strange experience to be walking down the streets of the city without her usual shortcuts, and Dropoff's constant glances to see that she was still there.

When they reached the clinic that they were assigned to, there were several other bots waiting, and a nurse at a transluscent cubicle playing secretary. As Dropoff went to sign them in, Scythe leaned against a bare wall and took in the room. There was a sparkling crying in the arms of a rather bewildered looking sibling while their creator was trying to teacher the older of the two to look after the younger. An aged mech was wheezing quietly in the corner with a femme only a little older than Scythe herself accompanying him. One minibot was inspecting the copper dust on his peds and a couple were practically sitting on each other, most likely expecting since one was rubbing their servo over the other's sparkling chamber lovingly. Their intimacy made Scythe rather uncomfortable, and she was glad when Dropoff and her were quickly called to see the medic.

Suture was a common example of a bot that absolutely hated his job. He was only several vorns out of training and would much rather be working in a high end surgery in Iacon than a run down clinic for the lower classes here. However he didn't have much choice; by working at the clinic he would gain experience and have a better chance at becoming an apprentice to a surgeon later on.

When Suture noticed Dropoff and Scythe, he gave them an insincere greeting, then ordered Scythe to stand on a slightly raised podium so that he could thoroughly scan her. Scythe, who was familiar with the procedure as an older youngling, stood obediently still and fought the urge to shudder.

Suture's dull optics sparked for a moment and then the mech had practically thrown himself to the other side of the room. With bared blunt teeth he hissed, "Get out _now._ I don't want to see you here again!"

Instantly Dropoff was up and growling. "The frag if you have a choice. She has every right to be treated at this clinic, and we've never been turned away before!"

Suture's glare alternated between Dropoff and Scythe, now clearly being able to make out the odd proportions of the latter's form. "A choice? I have every right to turn you away. Go find some other medic, I refuse to deal with _her_ kind."

"Well you've already scanned her. Is she ready for her next frame?"

He paused for a moment, internally going over the information, before scowling again. "Yes, overdue actually. But don't think for one klick* that me or any bot here is going to willingly get close enough to make her a custom set of armour."

Dropoff snarled and slammed a fist down onto the medic's desk. "By our laws my charges are to be provided with the appropriate medical treatment, and that includes a new adult's armour!"

Suture threw his servos up. "And I have the right to refuse treatment if I see fit; the way I see it, that barbarian-" Scythe's engines rumbled loudly, "- is a disturbance and a safety risk to other patients."

"You slagger!" Dropoff cried. "She can't spend her life in the scrap she's in now!"

"The frag if I care! If you're not going to let this go, then send her to Kaon, maybe some one in the forges will take pity. She'll at least be with her own."

Without a word or thought Scythe extended her claws, the tips shredding through her cheap servo gloves and stalked over to the medic, however Dropoff was fast enough to restrain her.

With wide and bulging optics, Suture yelled. "Get the pit out of here, and don't come back!"

Dropoff kept her tight grip on Scythe as she tugged her out, shouting back, "Rot in the pit, you scrapbot!"

~oOo~

 **Klick - 1 second**

 **Breem - 8.3 minutes**

 **Orn - 13 days**

 **Joor - 1 hour**

 **Vorn - 83 years**


End file.
